A letter for my son.

Dear Longlegs,

One day you will hate me. I’m going to tell you that I want you to stop associating yourself with a certain acquaintance of yours else you’ll become one of the “smoking kids”. One day I’ll tell you that because you were bad in the store that we’re not going to get the hot wheels car we came there for. You’ll see it beckoning you on the shelf and you’ll hate me with a white hot anger for not buying it for you. One day I’ll ground you. I’ll take away all your television and computer privileges and resign you to a week of techtronicless solitude. You’ll brood in your room wondering how you came to have such an unreasonable and uncaring mother.

But maybe… somewhere in the back of your mind you’ll remember that when you were two, your mother would get up at 3:30 in the morning and hug you while you struggled to pass a painful and constipated bowel movement. Oh, you screamed. And all I could do was hold you tight and tell you keep pushing. Then I kissed away your tears and we sat down on the couch with a sippy cup of milk in the dark living room. We laughed, we hugged, we both went back to bed.

Know that I am your slave and would do anything for you. Incur your wrath when it’s needed to help you grow and develop into a thoughtful and caring human being. To turn you from apathy. And to hold you tight and wipe away your tears when it hurts to poo. I will do it all and ask for nothing in return. Only for the opportunity to serve you. My sweet beloved boy.

Love, Mom.